A Poem About Nothing

The golfers have gone, leaving the seventeenth

To me and the shadows of a setting sun and

The silence that returns after the cart carts them

And the noise they call music thumping and

Twanging down the fairway toward the green.

I remind myself not to mind; like the wind,

They’ll blow on through while the pines and I

Stay put. Friday evening before Labor Day,

And rain is on the way, the sky way more than

Fifty shades of gray, the crossing crow black

As a silhouette. I don’t have a lot to say

(You’re probably well aware)—too tired

To come up with more than an image or two

And a vague sense of gratitude the week is done.

Can a poem be about nothing?

I’ll leave you to judge.

9/2/2022